Becoming Josephine (20 page)

And then I saw it—a tiny strip of paper tucked under the clasp of his collar. My heart pounded as I unfolded it.

The governess takes care of everything but our hearts.

Eugène’s handwriting! He had not said much in case a jailer found the note, but I knew what it meant. My clever boy. They were well, they missed us, and they had petitioned for Alexandre and me. I tucked the note inside my dress as prisoners came to pet the renegade dog. Fortuné yapped happily.

“How did the little rascal get past the guards?” a toothless man asked as he rubbed Fortuné’s silky ears.

“I don’t know, but how happy I am to see him!” I smiled for the first time in weeks.

My joy was short-lived.

Two jailers ran to my cell and plucked Fortuné from my arms. “How did this bugger get in here?”

“The children brought him,” one of the guards replied. “The ones who keep visiting. They must be hers.” He flicked his head in my direction. The jailers carried Fortuné away growling and snapping.

Hortense and Eugène came to Les Carmes? A knot of pain throbbed in my chest and radiated through my body. I couldn’t see them or hold them. My children were alone. They needed me. I collapsed on the floor. I needed them.

A month passed as if in slow motion. One afternoon I lay drowsy on a heap of straw when a commotion stirred elsewhere in the prison. People shouted and wailed. In protest? I could not make out their words. What in the world was going on?

The rowdiness drew closer. The lock to our hallway opened. I joined the crowd gathered near the door. As it swung open, a guard shoved another prisoner into the room—the striking General Lazare Hoche.

He held his head high, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.

“Good general!” a man bellowed and extended his hand.

“Sir, how can it be? A war hero has been arrested!” a shocked young woman cried.

The exclamations continued as the guard led General Hoche through our corridor to another. The General had been the very face of the Revolution, revered, loved by all. I had heard endless tales of his bravery and kindness. If General Hoche was jailed, the assembly had lost reason.

The second day after the general’s arrival, he approached Alexandre and me as we huddled, plotting our next move.

“Citizen de Beauharnais, citizeness.” He bowed.

“Hello, General,” we replied in unison.

“Please, call me Lazare.”

General Hoche and Alexandre recounted details of their shared army experiences, the swift political changes, and conspiracy. As they spoke, I absorbed the full details of the general’s appearance. Dark hair curled around a proud forehead, a slightly crooked nose protruded, and his heart-shaped lips pouted seductively. Tassels and embellishments decorated his navy uniform. He exuded energy and addictive optimism. A breath of fresh air—a handsome, good-humored breath of air.

I did not see the general again for several days. When at last I caught sight of him, a clump of admirers surrounded him.

“What ingrates our leaders are!” a gentleman said. “They imprison one of their greatest generals! Fools.”

“Thank you, kind citizen,” the general said. “I love my country, despite the current state of affairs. Mistakes are made when fear lurks in the hearts of men, and it is fear that leads us now. That will change. Someone will do the right thing.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Tyranny does not last forever,” Hoche said.

“Neither do we!” another man exclaimed.

General Hoche’s warm laugh melted like honey on warm brioche.

My knees weakened at the delicious sound. I approached him and touched his arm.

“
Bonjour
, general.”

“Citoyenne de Beauharnais. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded at the crowd and offered me his arm. “Would you care to walk?”

“That would be a welcome distraction.”

“Your accent is, forgive me for saying so, seductive. Are you Creole?”

I peeked at him through lowered lashes. “I am from Martinique.”

“Of course. Your dark hair, the way you move, the way you speak.” He sighed with satisfaction.

Lord, I could be content in the darkest depths of hell with this man. I smiled, the faintest trace of happiness budding in my chest.

“Alexandre tells me you have been separated for some time?” he asked.

He did not waste time. Giddiness spread through me like intoxication. “Almost ten years. He is in love with one of my cellmates, Delphine. I am glad for them. Are you married, general?”

“Yes, just. Adelaide and I married last month. She’s beautiful, but naive in the ways of the world.” He looked at me expectantly.

Unfortunate circumstance. If only he had been sent a month prior, he would not be married. I shocked myself with such a horrible thought.

“Do you love her?” I asked.

“Yes. But will I see her again?”

“That appears to be everyone’s predicament,” I said. “When does responsibility end and celebrating life begin? I’d say the moment the gate is locked behind you.”

“Madame.” A soldier bowed his head slightly as we passed.

General Hoche saluted him. “I’ve heard you are well loved,” he said to me.

I blushed. “I enjoy making friends.”

“You’ve endangered your life to help at least a dozen others here.” The general’s expression became intense. “That’s honorable. No different from being a soldier.”

I laughed. “I assure you I am nothing like a soldier. I am far from brave. I can’t even hold my tears when they call the names of the condemned.”

“You do not know yourself,
citoyenne
. Or the lives you touch.”

“You are too kind.”

The prison bells rang. Prisoners shuffled to their assigned corridors.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he inquired.

“I thought you would never ask.” I smiled and made my way through the dank hallways.

My relationship with the general blossomed at a rapid pace. Our desperate yearning for connection, for a sense of meaning, fueled our desires. Lazare loved his wife. He made it plain that being wrenched from her bosom to face certain death was the only reason he strayed. Yet we shared a special sentiment.

He put his hand on my dirt-streaked face. “Why did I meet you in Dante’s inferno?” He caressed the apple of my cheek with his thumb.

“Lazare.” Speaking his name sent a rush of warmth through my limbs. “It’s hard to believe, but here we are.” I brushed his hand with my lips.

“I miss Adelaide. I long for her, but your friendship, your
douceur
. You are so sweet.” He leaned closer. “I love your confidence. Your heart.”

My skin tingled with longing.

He led me through the corridor to his cell—he had his own with a bed and received fresh bread daily. Famed generals did not go without like the rest of us.

“But it is almost a real bedroom!” A writing table sat in the corner, stacked with books. Sunshine poured through a sizable window. “You have clean bedcovers?” I ran my
hand over the sheets.

“I am very fortunate.”

“If one can call this fortunate.”

He pulled me to him in a swift motion, placing his warm mouth on mine. We pulled at clothing, hungry for the touch of skin.

Oh, Lazare. Save me from darkness. Let me feel alive again.

“Rose,” he breathed.

I stroked him until he moaned. He cupped my rear end and pulled me on top of him. Our need mounted until our cries exploded in relief and anguish.

I lay in his arms as the passion drained away and my living nightmare returned. My children. I was going to die. I wept on his muscled chest.

“Sweet Rose. Shhhh. No terrible thoughts. Things will change. I promise.”

How could he be so optimistic? No one had left this prison through the front door.

Chiming bells shattered our intimate moment.

Lazare managed a smile. Somehow he always managed a smile.

Our love affair did not last. A month later the National Assembly ordered Lazare to be transferred to another, less heinous prison. He promised to lobby for my release and to see me beyond the prison walls. Despair suffocated me and I grew ill in his absence.

“You have the prison cough,” Delphine said, concern wrinkling her flawless features. The grime did not mask her beauty.

“The death cough,” I rasped, leaning against a wall, fingers slipping in the green film that covered the plaster.

Delphine clasped my fingers. “Don’t say such things.”

My throat gurgled and my shoulders shook. “We . . .” I coughed. “We both know it is true.”

The days slipped by, uniform in their misery. One sweltering day, I lay on my mattress listening to the ranting of a priest.

“The one who condemns us to death is called Saint-Just!” he shouted. “What wretched joke has God played on us? He is the angel of death!
La justice
will visit Saint-Just one day. God’s wrath will descend upon him for his evildoing. I will look down from heaven and send a curse of vengeance.” His voice grew louder; his passion flared as if he preached from his altar. “God’s chosen have been fed to the wolves of rebellion! I will see that he burns, that they all burn, that God—”

“My ears are burning!” an apathetic prisoner shouted. “Shut up, old man! No one cares. We’ll all be dead in a few days anyway.”

While the priest ranted, the sounds of unfettered lovemaking drifted through the halls. Anything to feel alive, to validate our pitiful existence.

I read my tarot cards before the hour of death. Delphine paced while I shuffled.

“I feel a terrible dread.” She clenched her fists as she moved back and forth across the small space. Several of her friends had been executed and three of our cellmates. “I don’t know. I feel . . .”

“It won’t be you, dear.”

The bells rang. I stuffed my cards into their pouch, their message not yet read.

We walked to meet Alexandre. He kissed me in greeting.

“Another day, ladies. We’ve lived another day.” Delphine threw her arms around him and kissed him with ardor.

The usual hush enveloped the prison when the warden appeared before us. He stood on his wooden platform and unrolled the list.

Six names. But still he read more.

Anxiety pulsed in my limbs. The list grew longer each day.